


throw me a lifeline (I might even catch it)

by renecdote



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: (He Gets One), Angst, Dick is a Good Brother, Flashbacks, Gen, Jason needs a hug, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-01 09:11:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13995087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renecdote/pseuds/renecdote
Summary: Jason’s experienced a lot of trauma he’s not going to forget anytime soon. Especially not on nights when things go boom.





	throw me a lifeline (I might even catch it)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [dove-among-bats](http://dove-among-bats.tumblr.com/). Also fills the following request: Hey, i LOVE ur writting and saw your requests were open so Could you do “you’ve been asleep for the past 12 hours and I got worried” with Jason todd? Thanks love
> 
> Please mind the tags, this one deals explicitly with PTSD and memories of trauma (specifically Jay's death).

_ Get up, _ Jason tells himself,  _ get up and get out of here. _ But he doesn’t get up, can’t make himself move. He’s curled over with his forehead on the grimy ground and he needs to  _ get up  _ but if he tries he’s sure he’ll shake apart.

He’s already shaking apart.

“Hood,” someone says. Then, “Jason.”

Jason flinches when a hand touches his back. It feels like fire and ice and a punch and a hard whack from a crowbar. He chokes on a gasp. A scream builds in his throat and he bites his lip so hard it splits trying to keep the ugly sound inside. Blood dribbles down his chin.

“Jay?”  

The hand moves to his face, scratching over stubble he needs to shave off. That’s odd, Jason thinks, when did he take his helmet off? He can feel the cold, slimy wet of the concrete beneath him. When he sucks in a shuddering breath, he can taste dirt and the bitter tang of city filth and acrid smoke pouring into the air. The metallic taste of blood and rotting flesh and muddy soil-

Jason lurches forward and throws up. His hand smacks against the ground, trembling at the effort of keeping upright. His stomach aches with phantom pain and he presses his other hand against it, feeling for an injury he remembers getting but isn’t there. His head throbs. Hands -  _ oh. yeah. someone is here _ \- caress and prod at it. Jason flinches, it makes the whole world twist and shudder. 

“-unresponsive,” that voice is saying again and Jason should know it, he  _ knows  _ he should know it, but trying to call up a name or a face drives spikes through his skull. It’s pain like nothing- no, one thing he’s ever felt before. The voice is still talking (never stops talking. ever. it’s… annoying?), but the words slip and slide around Jason’s ears. “...head injury…unknown...Batmobile...asap…med bay...”

Jason loses time. Or maybe time loses him. Suffocating darkness swirls with flashes of red and yellow and laughter and blue and pain. Always pain. 

_ “Can you tell me where it hurts, Master Jason?” _

_ “Had enough yet, little birdie?” _

_ “Your pain tolerance is pathetic.” _

_ “I wish I could stop anyone from ever hurting you again.” _

_ “You ever want to just- make the pain stop, whatever it takes?” _

_ “You’ll feel better when you wake up, Jaylad.” _

Jason wakes up. 

He doesn’t feel better.

No. That’s… not right. Right but not right. He feels too much. The world explodes into sudden technicolour, like he’s been floating below the surface of a murky lake and someone has reached down and hauled him out. Bright light clashes with quiet voices clashes with steady beeping clashes with heavy warmth clashes with buzzing pain.

Jason squeezes his eyes shut. Clamps his hands over his ears and curls up as much as he can with things pulling at him and trapping him and- god- it’s too much too much too much-

“Jason-”

“-it’s okay-”

“-shh-”

“-safe, Little Wing”

Jason wants to scream. So he does. A hoarse, tortured sound muffled through teeth clenched so hard he can feel his jaw creaking. He just wants it to  _ stop _ . The voices. The touching. The light. The beeping. Oh god, the beeping.

(5,

4,

3,

2,

1-)

( _ Boom. _ )

_ It’s not real _ , he tells himself. But it was. Dammit, it  _ was _ real and it still  _ feels _ real even though it’s been years, he should be over this by now, why can’t he just get. over. it. Why can’t he just  _ function _ like a normal fucking person instead of imploding at the slightest reminder of-

There’d been an explosion. Not  _ that _ explosion, another one. A recent one. Tonight. Last night? Jason jerks upright and pain tears along his arm but he ignores it, spinning around wildly to grab the first- Dick. It’s Dick’s arm, and his face is etched with the kind of panic that Jason feels curdling beneath his skin. There had been people in that building. Innocent people; mothers, children,  _ families. _

“Ex-” he starts and his voice cracks. Splinters. Shatters. His mouth is like a desert, his throat like a cliff eroded by harsh ocean winds, and he coughs until his chest burns from lack of oxygen. It almost drives him back into his mind (the last time he’d almost died from lack of oxygen he’d been suffocating in his own-). A warm hand against his shoulder, a cool glass pushed into his hand, keep him in the present. Just.

“Don’t talk,” Dick says. Then, quickly, like he knows if he doesn’t hurry up and get to the point his admonishment not to talk will be in vain, “Everyone got out of the building. A few injuries, but nobody died. You saved them all. It’s you we’re worried about, you…”  _ had a meltdown _ “...you’ve been out for almost twelve hours, Jay.”

Jason sags, panic-fuelled tension draining away so suddenly it leaves him lightheaded. An arm comes up around his shoulders and Jason finds his head against his brother’s chest. He closes his eyes, curls a hand into the material of an old Gotham U sweatshirt so worn and baggy on his brother it must belong to Bruce. It makes him smile, just a little, to think of Dick raiding Bruce’s wardrobe the same way Jason used to raid Dick’s. Not that he ever found much worthy of stealing in there.

He realises it’s the first good memory he’s had since...  however much time has passed since he saw that fireball light up the night sky. Half a day, longer. It makes him smile a little more. Dick’s other arm comes up to hug him closer and his chin dips down to rest against Jason’s hair. Jason doesn’t usually allow this kind of affection. In a moment he’ll push away, get back to that carefully preserved distance between them. But for now, he’s tired and sore and darkness is creeping back up like a chill along his spine. And his brother is warm and comfortable (and safe).

“Master Dick?” he hears whispered on the edge of consciousness.

And Dick replies just as quietly, “He’s okay.”

If tonight (last night?) is proof of anything, Jason thinks, it’s that he really isn’t. He’s about as far from okay as a person can get. He doesn’t need the World’s Greatest Detective to tell him  _ that _ . But Jason doesn’t argue the point, just like he doesn’t argue the hug, because from Dick’s lips it doesn’t sound like a fact. It sounds like a promise. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I'd really appreciate it if you left a comment, or feel free to come yell about the batfam with me on tumblr [here](http://tantalum-cobalt.tumblr.com).


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